


To Stand and Stare

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 05:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: When Clint gets hurt on a mission, Phil can't help but show his feelings.





	To Stand and Stare

Phil Coulson was in the office area of the AIM complex when he heard the first explosion. He ducked behind a filing cabinet, drew his gun, and said “Report!” into his comms.

“Nearly done loading.” Natasha Romanov’s voice was perfectly steady. “Clint’s gone to check it out.”

“Are you clear to take off with the package?”

“Affirmative. There’s nothing on the radar or the horizon.”

“Okay, get the package to base. Barton and I will keep them busy here. Tell the extraction team to pick us up at the safe house in four hours.”

“Roger. Good hunting.”

Phil crept to the door of the office and, staying low, put his hand on the knob and turned it slowly. Before opening the door he switched his comm line two-way-always-open and said quietly, “Talk to me, Barton.”

“I’m on the catwalk over the main production area. I can see some black smoke at the other end, near the front entrance of the facility. I’m moving towards it now.”

“Do you see any hostiles?”

“Not yet.”

Phil wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign. “I’m coming out of the offices on the west side. We’ll rendezvous at the employee lounge.”

“Roger that, boss.”

Phil slipped through the door and crept from the offices towards the production area which was full of whirring machinery, conveyor belts, and big vats of bubbling, stinking liquids. He kept his eyes moving, watching for hostiles, glancing up to track Barton’s progress on the catwalks, and checking cloud of black smoke near the entrance. He had almost reached the rendezvous point when another, louder explosion rocked the building almost directly overhead. Coulson crouched against a wall in the shadow of a vat as pieces of masonry rained down. Before it had stopped he heard gunfire, and a grunt from Barton, over the comms. Coulson dashed out of his hiding place, and, using a forklift as cover, looked up. On the now-twisted metal of the catwalk, Clint Barton was fighting four bad guys dressed in black tactical outfits. Coulson took a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t about to be similarly assailed, then aimed. It was almost useless. All four of his targets were in motion, as was Barton, who had dropped his bow and was fighting with a broken arrow in one hand and one of his throwing knives in the other. Coulson steadied his aim and waited for his chance.

He didn’t have to wait long. Clint got a solid backwards kick into the midsection of one assailant and it knocked the guy far enough back that Coulson was able to put two bullets into him. His shots had the secondary advantage of distracting their opponents, who startled and looked around for the source of the gunfire. Barton took full advantage, slashing one bad guy across the inside of the thigh and backhanding another in the jaw. The fourth, largest bad guy however, recovered his focus quickly and bore down on Barton, going low for a grapple.

As Phil watched, Clint obviously decided that the best place to be was elsewhere, and vaulted over the mangled railing of the catwalk. The big goon turned his lunge into a blow, bringing a hammer fist down on Clint’s fingers where they were still wrapped around what was left of the rail. Coulson swore he could hear the crunch from where he was and winced, then shot the goon three times in center mass. As a result, he wasn’t looking at Clint’s downwards trajectory, and failed to see him bounce off a broken bit of wall and land with a splash in a big vat of bright orange liquid. Phil heard it though, and, without a moment’s hesitation, sprinted up the ladder bolted to the side of the vat.

Switching his sidearm to his off hand, he reached out and grabbed a spluttering Clint Barton by the shoulder of his tac suit and hauled him out of the vat.

“Fuck,” said Clint when he was back on solid ground, coughing and shaking the orange goo out of his hair. “That stuff smells like dog shit.”

Coulson agreed, and was searching for any sign of a decontamination shower even a water fountain, to no avail. “Can you walk?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Clint said, and staggered to his feet, curling his right hand protectively into his side.

“How bad are your fingers?” Coulson asked as he led the way to the employee lounge which was thankfully still mostly intact.

“Broken. And I think I cracked a couple of ribs, too. Coulson, I don’t know what this stuff is, but it’s starting to burn.”

“Yes, I’d noticed.” The skin on Phil’s right hand, which he had used to pull Barton out of the vat, was getting tingly and sore. Phil looked around in vain for an emergency shower or eyewash station, but apparently this AIM complex was low on workplace safety features. Or maybe everyone worked in their trademark yellow suits.

The employee break room didn’t even have a sink, just a collection of sad-looking plastic tables and chairs, and a wall of vending machines. Left-handedly, Coulson shot one vending machine in several places, then smashed out the splintered glass with his elbow. He pulled out bottles of water and tossed them to Barton. “This’ll have to do until we can get to a proper decontamination shower. Is is soaking through your tac suit?”

Clint shook his head in answer. He was busy uncapping the bottles and pouring them over his hands, face, and head. Phil did the same to his right hand, then stuffed as many extra bottles as he could into the pockets of his cargo pants.

“How are you doing? We should get moving before any more bad guys show up.”

“Okay, except, fuck. It got into my eyes, Coulson. They’re burning.”

“Don’t rub them,” Phil said quickly as he grabbed another bottle of water and twisted it open.

“I know, I know,” Clint said miserably.

“Kneel down and tilt your head up, I’ll flush them out. Try to keep your eyes open as wide as you can.” Phil deliberately kept his voice low and calm as he poured water over Clint’s face. “Good, that’s good. Do they feel any better?” Clint’s eyes were red and puffy and Phil could feel the tension of fear radiating from him.

“A bit, yeah. Thanks, Phil.”

“I’m going to do one more bottle, then we need to get out of here. You can have a shower at the safe house.”

“Yeah, okay.” Clint sucked in a breath and Coulson could see him pulling himself together, steeling himself to deal with whatever came next. Phil poured the last of the water from the bottle into Clint’s hairline, and then slicked it back with a slow sweep of his hand.

“What was that for?”

“I think maybe it dripped into your eyes from your hair. Try to keep it off your forehead.”

“Thanks. Okay, let’s go.” Clint said, grasping Phil’s offered right hand with his own left to climb to his feet.

Phil winced at the pressure on the skin that had been exposed to the chemical. “Can you see well enough to shoot?” Clint had dropped his bow during the fight, and his guns had gone into the vat of goo with him, and so were almost certainly useless.

“Close up? Absolutely.” For Clint Barton, ‘close up’ meant anything nearer than a couple of hundred feet.

“Here,” Coulson said, handing over his primary weapon, and then drawing his backup left-handed. “Let’s go.”

“How’re the ribs?” he asked as they made their way carefully through a series of back corridors, checking for company as they went.

“Sore, but I can breathe okay.”

“Evac will pick us up from the safe house. We’ll be back at SHIELD within a few hours.” It was all the reassurance Coulson had, and he knew it wasn’t much. They didn’t know what was in the orange ooze, had no idea what it was doing to Clint’s eyes, and were a few hours away from medical attention. “Tell me if the ribs or your eyes start to get worse, and I’ll call a Code Red.”

“I’ll be okay, boss. Thanks. Pretty sure the ribs are just bruised, and my eyes are stingy and watering, my vision’s not affected at all. I can make it to the safe house.” Clint’s voice was tight, which Phil knew was from a combination of pain and stress. But if Clint said he was okay, well, then he was. Mostly, anyway.

They got out of the building without encountering any other opposition, and as they were pulling away in the backup vehicle, a nondescript black sedan, they could hear sirens approaching. Clint poured two more bottles of water over his eyes and face while they drove, which Phil carefully didn’t comment on. He just gripped the wheel a little tighter and paid closer attention to his driving. The best thing he could do for Clint right now was get him to the safe house as quickly and safely as possible, so that he could stand under a shower for as long as it took to wash the rest of the orange ooze away. And based on how Phil’s right hand was feeling (dry and tight and tingly, and he desperately wanted to scratch at it), that might take a while.

Fifteen minutes of just-above-the-speed-limit driving put them in front of a rundown converted house in a neighborhood that had been working class when that still meant you made enough money for both food and rent. The car would probably get stripped or stolen while they were inside, but right now Coulson didn’t care; his priority was Clint. They made the transition from car to safe house with practiced efficiency. Clint checked the sight-lines and stood at Phil’s back while he did all the electronic security checks. Once the apartment door was triple-bolted behind them and the electronic surveillance was engaged, Phil turned to Clint and said, “Strip.”

“Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?” Clint asked with a shadow of his usual smirk.

Phil ignored him, but was relieved that Clint was doing well enough to at least try one of his regular jokes. “As soon as I’ve confirmed our pick-up, I’ll find something dry for you to put on when you get out of the shower. Take as long as you need.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Clint was fumbling at the zippers on his tac suit with his left hand.

“Here, let me help.” Clint didn’t protest, and sighed in relief when his vest thumped to the floor. “It was beginning to soak through in spots,” Clint said. “I could feel it starting to burn. I can do that,” Clint said, as Phil started to pull his t-shirt out of his pants. “Would you untie my boots?”

Phil nodded and knelt, working as quickly as he could with a right hand that was sore and over-sensitive. He couldn’t imagine how bad Clint’s hands and face felt. Surprisingly, he thought, as he worked at the buckles and knots, there was no evidence to be seen. He expected his right hand to be red or at least pink, like a sunburn, based on the way it felt, but it wasn’t. Clint’s face wasn’t pink either - the only evidence was his eyes, which were red-rimmed and watering.

“There,” Phil said, undoing the last lace and pulling the tongues of Clint’s boots out wide for him. Clint had managed his shirt and belt buckle and shoved his pants down to his knees then kicked them and his boots off. Phil definitely did not stare at his ass as it disappeared behind the bathroom door.

Coulson called in to SHIELD headquarters and spoke to the operations manager for the mission, explaining briefly that they needed to be picked up by a unit with decontamination capability. “It’s probably just a chemical irritant,” he said, feeling more than ‘just irritated,’ “but we need to be on the safe side until we know for sure sure. And put a Code Red team on standby, just in case.”

“Doing that now, Agent Coulson. You pick up is scheduled for oh-nine-thirty, and they’ll contact you with a precise ETA when they are approximately thirty minutes out from your location.” It was standard procedure, but Coulson approved of the ops manager formally confirming in this case.

“Thanks, Coulson out.” He had just finished pulling a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that would fit Clint out of one of the plastic storage bins by the wall when he heard a yell from the bathroom. Phil sprinted through the bathroom door, clothes still clutched in his hands.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Clint was yelling, while cowering in the far corner of the bathtub, away from the shower spray.

“What’s wrong? Do your eyes hurt? Talk to me Barton.” The last was snapped loudly when he didn’t get any response to the first two.

“The fucking water is ice cold. It was fine one minute, then the next, bam. I’ve fiddled with the taps, but no matter what I do it’s still freezing.”

Coulson tried to calm his hammering heart, and laid the clothes on the edge of the stained pedestal sink. Then he stuck his hand under the spray. The cold water felt good for a minute on his sore, itchy right hand, but after a few seconds the cold became decidedly uncomfortable. He fiddled with the taps himself, but couldn’t improve the situation any.

“Sorry, Clint. Then retrieval team will be here in just under three hours. There will be plenty of hot water on base.” He didn’t mention, though they both knew full well, that the hot showers would only come after the lengthy and annoying decontamination procedure. “These should fit you. I’ll go make some coffee.”

“Coffee,” said Clint who was now visibly shivering. “Sounds good.”

Phil backed out of the bathroom and closed the door behind him to give Clint some privacy, though he wasn’t sure there was any point, considering the afore-mentioned decontamination to come.

~~~

Clint climbed out of the shower and sat on the edge of the tub, grateful that this dingy, bare-bones safe house had at least come equipped with a supply of large fluffy towels. He applied one to his hair left-handed, trying to get out as much of the water and remaining orange ooze as he could. He left it draped over his head to absorb any drips while he dried off with a second towel and then slowly dressed in the sweats and t-shirt Phil had left for him. They were SHIELD issue which meant the legs were too long for him, but Clint was used to that. Using the sink to pull himself to his feet, he experimentally flexed the fingers of his right hand. The thumb and pinky were fine. The middle three... he could move them a little, and it hurt. A lot. Probably broken, again. Clint sighed. Broken fingers sucked. He shivered despite being dressed, so he took the damp towel off his head, left it in the pile on the bathroom floor. Hopefully by now Phil would have made some coffee.

He found Phil on the sofa in the tiny apartment’s main room, an array of open MRE packages spread out on the battered steamer chest that served as both a coffee table and (Clint knew from previous safe houses) secure storage.

“Hey,” Phil said, as Clint folded himself carefully into the corner of the sofa and pulled the Ranger blanket that Phil had left there up to his chin. “There was nothing but a calcified jar of instant in the kitchen,” Phil said, nodding towards the other end of the studio, “so I made you cocoa.” Phil poured the steaming hot chocolate from the plastic MRE pouch to a mug that had ‘I HEART my Parrot’ printed on the side of it. Clint remembered just in time to reach for it with his left hand, and cradled it to his chest, inhaling the hot steam and blowing on it to cool it.

“Thanks, Phil, you may have just saved my life.”

“Transport’ll be here in a couple of hours. How are your eyes?”

“Still sore, but I can see fine.”

“Good.” Phil reached for the first aid kit that was also sitting on the steamer trunk and rifled through it. “There are some eye drops here, but until we know what chemicals we’re dealing with, it’s probably best not to use them.”

Clint nodded.

“However, there’s also a bottle of sterile saline for irrigation, and I’d like to give that a try.”

Clint appreciated that Coulson was making it sound like he had a choice. But he knew it would be stupid to refuse, and much as he really didn’t want anything else in his eyes, he realized that Coulson was right, flushing them out with something sterile was probably a really good idea. So he sighed, put his mug of cocoa on the table, and tipped his head against the back of the sofa. Coulson got up to stand behind him with the bottle of saline, and only then did Clint notice that Phil had changed out of his suit jacket and shirt into a pale grey SHIELD t-shirt identical to the one that he was wearing.

‘Must have been worried about the orange goo on it,’ Clint thought, trying to distract himself from the warmth of Phil’s body as his hander bent close.

“Ready?” Coulson asked.

“Yeah.” Clint swallowed and tried to keep his eyes open. The saline wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t cold (Coulson must have warmed it up somehow) and it actually felt kind of good on his sore eyes. The excess dribbling down the back of his neck and soaking into his t-shirt didn’t feel good, however. When Phil had finished and returned the bottle to the first aid kit, Clint started to heave himself out of his position on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” Coulson asked.

“Going to get a towel, back of my neck’s all wet.”

“Stay, drink your cocoa. I’ll get it.” Phil hopped up and returned a minute later. Instead of handing, he pressed it to the back of Clint’s neck, then left it draped there. Clint shivered again.

“Here, eat this,” Phil said, tearing open another MRE package and offering Clint a fudge brownie. “Unless you want a Pop-tart instead.”

“Maybe next,” Clint said around a mouthful of chocolate. MREs were pretty dire, but Phil knew exactly what all the best parts were, and more than once he’d fed a banged-up Clint like this, cannibalizing a half-dozen packages for the chocolate, cookies, and skittles.

“Thanks, Phil,” Clint said when he’d washed down the brownie with the last of his cocoa. “I’m okay, really.”

“Ribs?” Coulson asked.

“Pretty sure they’re just bruised. Pain’s not getting any worse and I’m breathing fine.”

“Good. And how’s the skin on your face and hands?”

“Better, actually,” Clint said, realizing that it was true. “The cold shower probably actually helped.”

Phil smiled and Clint saw him relax. Coulson would probably be appalled to find out that Clint could read his mental state so easily, but it made Clint feel secure, knowing that Coulson wasn’t very worried. Clint shivered again and pulled the Ranger blanket back around himself.

“I’ll get you a hoodie and put some more food on to warm up. Do you want chicken with noodles or mac and cheese?”

“Mac and cheese. Do the folks in the SHIELD supply department ever get pissed at you for like,” Clint waved his good hand at the detritus of MRE packaging on the table, “that?”

“Nope,” Phil said, setting an envelope of food to heat and then going over to where a row of plastic storage bins were lined up against the far wall. “Do you want socks as well? I guess so, and shoes, too. Your boots are still covered in that goo.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to put them on me, though,” Clint said with a sigh. Broken fingers sucked so much.

Coulson was quick and efficient at pulling the socks onto Clint’s feet. Then he unzipped the hoodie and held it out for Clint to thread his arms through. The left was fine, but Clint caught the fingers of his right on the seam of the armhole as he was working it on, and swore. Once the sweater was on and re-zipped, Coulson turned back to the first aid kit.

“I could put a splint on your fingers; it would help.”

Phil knew that Clint preferred to go without splints if nothing was actually broken, moving his fingers gently while they healed meant that it didn’t take as long for their strength to return. But in this case, Clint was pretty sure at least one of them was broken, and a splint would help to protect them from the accidental snags and knocks that were sure to come over the next few hours during retrieval and decontamination. He held his injured hand out towards Phil, who took it gently in both of his own.

Clint closed his eyes, not because it hurt, but because it felt so good. Phil had patched him up like this countless times after an op, and to be fair, Coulson had also been on the receiving end more than once. Clint knew how he felt when Coulson was injured: scared, worried, mad at himself for letting it happen, even when there was nothing he could have done, and, in a tiny corner of his heart that he tried very hard to ignore, secretly pleased that he got to be the one to patch Phil up, to help him, to make sure he was okay until they got back to base.

Clint was pretty sure that Coulson worried about him, too. He certainly looked worried, which was one of the reasons that Clint let him help. The other reason was how good it felt to have Phil take care of him. That was something else he refused to think about. So Clint closed his eyes to make sure that Phil couldn’t see any of what he was feeling, and let his hand be gently, carefully examined. Then Phil expertly applied a metal-and-foam splint, and wrapped Clint’s fingers and hand in a length of gauze to hold the splint in place.

“Thanks, Phil,” Clint said when the bandaging was finished.

“You’re welcome. Tell me if it starts to feel tight,” Phil said, and Clint waited until he heard the sounds of Phil re-packing the first-aid kit before he opened his eyes.

“Here,” Phil handed him a warm MRE pouch of mac & cheese and a plastic fork. Clint cradled the pouch between his chest and his knees and ate a couple of mouthfuls.

“You should eat something too,” Clint said.

Phil smiled as if he was indulging Clint and tore open yet another MRE package. He spilled the contents onto the table and picked out a small rectangular plastic pouch. Coulson spread the MRE’s napkin on the knees of his suit pants, then opened the pouch and tipped out three broken pieces of what looked like a fat granola bar.

“I don’t know how you can eat those things,” Clint said, glad to have something to tease Coulson about.

“They taste like apple pie,” Coulson said around a mouthful of caramel-apple Ranger bar.

“They really, really, don’t,” said Clint who’d tried one. Twice, in fact, because Phil liked them so much.

Phil finished chewing, and sighed. “When you’ve been pinned down by enemy mortar fire for 36 hours and your unit is down to an MRE and a half-a-canteen of water each, and your NCO gives you his Ranger bar, because he can’t give you hope that you’ll actually see dawn... That’s when they taste like apple pie.” Coulson spoke softly, looking at the crumbs on the napkin on his lap and not at Clint.

Clint didn’t know what to do with the tightness he felt around his heart. Why did Coulson have to go and... open up to him like that. It just made it so much harder to keep the distance, the detachment that Clint had to surround himself with. Clint shivered, violently. Partly with actual cold, and partly because he was trying to shake off the feeling of intimacy that suddenly hung between him and Phil. A feeling that he had to reject. He had to.

But there was Phil, making it harder and harder. Noticing Clint shivering and getting all worried again. Phil got up and went to the thermostat mounted on the wall in the small apartment, fiddled with it for a moment, then smacked the wall.

“Damn thing doesn’t work any better than the hot water. I’m going to write a report to facilities explaining that these are not acceptable conditions for a safe house for agents who need basic comforts as a matter of health and safety...” Phil was muttering to himself as he crossed to the row of plastic bins and opened one, pulling out two more blankets, which he then tucked carefully around Clint. “There. that should help. Let me know if you don’t feel warmer in a few minutes. It could be some side effect from the chemical, or something. And in the meantime I’ll make you another hot drink.”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks Phil.” Clint couldn’t help but feel absurdly grateful for the attention and care. This was stupid. He’d been injured many times before, much worse than this. Why was Phil’s care suddenly so hard to deal with? Must be something in the orange goo. Some sort of chemical that lowered inhibitions or fucked with your emotions or something like that. Fuck knows they’d come across stranger stuff on missions.

Clint made it through the next couple of hours of Phil feeding him hot drinks, tucking blankets around him, and checking his broken fingers. They were picked up by the retrieval team (who were all dressed in hazmat suits) and transported to SHIELD headquarters where they went through decontamination together. Which, while, long, annoying, tedious, and embarrassing, had the advantage of being a familiar routine. By the time they were in medical being poked and prodded by the SHIELD chemical exposure specialist, Clint felt almost entirely like himself.

“As far as we can tell, it’s just a chemical irritant. We’ll keep doing blood tests of course, to make sure it doesn’t have any other effects, but you both should recover completely in a couple of days,” Dr. Ramirez said to Clint and Phil who were perched next to each other on a gurney. “I’m going to give you two kinds of eye drops, an antibiotic and a soothing lubricant, just to be on the safe side,” she said, rummaging in a cabinet. Clint tipped his head back as instructed and tried to stay still and not blink while she squeezed drops into his eyes. Eye drops weren’t a whole lot of fun, but he appreciated that the doctor was being extra careful with his sight. “You can go,” the doctor said, nodding at Phil. Check back in first thing tomorrow morning for your blood draw, and call if there’s any change. You,” she said to Clint, “have an appointment with X-ray for your ribs and fingers.”

Clint sighed, and he got a sympathetic pat on the leg from Phil. “Don’t worry about your after-action; you can dictate it to me first thing tomorrow morning.”

“After your blood draws,” said Dr. Ramirez.

“After our blood draws,” Phil said, and Clint rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh to hide the fact that he was unhappy about Phil leaving. He didn’t need his handler to stay and hold his hand during X-rays, but it would have been nice. Clint waved his bandaged hand as Phil disappeared through the door, then hopped off the gurney and squared his shoulders. After the X-rays were done, he could go back to his quarters and watch a movie to distract himself from the uncomfortable feeling of longing that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.

~~~

Phil’s office door opened, and he was out of his seat and striding quickly towards it before he’d made a conscious decision to move. Clint was standing there, obviously in distress.

“What’s wrong? Do you need to go to medical?”

Clint stepped into Phil’s office and shoved something at him. “I can’t do the damn eye drops. I’ve been trying for the last half-hour and I’ve squeezed half the bottle all over my face. I’ve got to use my left hand, and use this one to try to keep my eye open,” Clint waved his now much more thickly bandaged hand in Phil’s direction. “Because apparently I can keep my eyes open when someone else is doing the drops, but not when I’m trying to do them myself. I don’t wanna have to go back to medical every four hours. Could you...?”

Clint looked so miserable that Phil would have done just about anything to make him feel better, so he didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, of course. Sit down on the sofa.”

Clint gave him a grateful smile and plopped himself down into the corner of the sofa that stretched along one wall of Phil’s office. Like he had done in the safe house, Phil rested one hand gently on Clint’s forehead while he carefully squeezed two drops from each bottle into Clint’s red-rimmed eyes.

“How’s that? Does it feel okay?”

“It feels great, Phil. Thanks.” Clint heaved a sigh of relief that also betrayed a weariness that Phil recognized.

“Have you slept since we got back from the op?” Phil himself had taken a two-hour nap after he’d been discharged from medical, and was planning to head home a little early this afternoon.

Clint shook his head. “Not really. The doc who wrapped up my fingers after the X-rays took forever doing it, so I only got back to my bunk a couple of hours ago. I was too keyed up to sleep right away, so I figured I’d watch a movie, then do the eye drops, then sleep. But that plan didn’t work out so well.”

“Why don’t you sleep now? The drops are every four hours, right? I’ll wake you at,” Phil glanced at his watch. “16:10, and do the next set for you.”

“That would be awesome, Phil. Thanks.” Clint smiled a huge, relieved smile, and snagged the 1970s brown-and-orange afghan off the back of Phil’s sofa and pulled it over himself.

Phil sat back down at his desk and stared at the screen blankly for a few minutes, pretending to read whatever was on the screen until Clint’s breathing evened out into a slow and steady rhythm. Then Phil got up and carefully re-arranged the afghan from where Clint had haphazardly and one-handedly pulled it over himself so that it was covering him properly from shoulders to knees. Phil stopped himself, just, from brushing Clint’s hair out of his eyes. He sighed and went back to his desk, forcing himself to spend the next four hours writing his own after-action report for the mission, then dealing with a number of other administrative tasks that were enough to keep his mind occupied and off the sleeping figure stretched out on his sofa. Mostly.

At ten-past-four, Phil got up, stretched his back, then went over and shook Clint gently by the shoulder. Clint yawned and opened his eyes, giving Phil a sleepy smile before rolling from his side onto his back and stretching luxuriously.

“S’not fair. Your sofa is more comfortable then my bed,” Clint said, finally sitting up. Phil doubted that that was true, but he was glad that Clint had slept soundly and well. He brandished the eye-drop bottles at Clint.

“Tip your head back,” he said, and Clint obliged. As he’d done each previous time, Phil laid his hand on Clint’s forehead before starting to squeeze the drops into his eyes. This time Phil thought he felt a slight shiver go through Clint, but Phil attributed it to him having sat up and lost the warmth of the afghan. Drops done, Phil stepped back, but he felt a great reluctance to hand the bottles of eye drops back to Clint.

“Thanks,” Clint said, wiping the excess liquid off his cheeks. “I guess I’ll try again myself at eight o’clock, and if I can’t manage it I’ll go to medical.”

“Come home with me,” Phil said, the words flying out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to censor them.

“What?” Clint blinked up at him.

“Stay at my place tonight,” Phil said, his gut had clenched with fear and hope, but his brain had taken over again and so his words came out calm and reasonable. “We’ll get some take-out, and I can do your drops again at eight, and then in the the morning, too. The sofa in my apartment is even more comfortable than this one,” he said, keeping his tone light.

“If it won’t be any trouble?” Clint said, scrubbing his hand across his now slightly-stubbly chin.

“I know you don’t snore, so it’s no trouble at all.” Phil was trying to keep the offer light and casual.

“That’d be great, thanks Phil. I should swing by my quarters and pick up my razor and toothbrush, though. And maybe some real clothes,” he added sheepishly, looking down at the faded purple sweatpants and “Property of SHIELD” t-shirt he was wearing.

“Why don’t you go do that while I shut down my workstation. Meet me at the motor pool in ten minutes.”

“Willdo, boss. Thanks!” Clint bounded to his feet and scooped the bottles of eye drops off Phil’s desk.

Once he had left, Phil shook his head. “You’re cruising for a bruising, Coulson,” he muttered to himself as he got ready to leave.

~~~

At his quarters Clint changed as quickly as he could manage into street clothes and shoved his cleanest, least holey sweatpants and t-shirt into his go-bag, pulling out the laptop and a coil of climbing rope both to make room and make the bag lighter to carry. “I won’t need to rappel down the side of Phil’s building,” he thought. “Probably.”

On his way to the motor pool, Clint thought happy thoughts about spending the night at Phil’s place. He’d been there a few times before, and even stayed over for a weekend once when Phil took pity on him and sprung him from medical a few days early. He’d been recovering from hypothermia and exposure that time, so he mostly remembered sleeping under a big pile of blankets that all seemed to be hand-made wool things from the 1970s (Phil’s mother must have been an avid knitter or something), and Phil bringing him bowls of oatmeal with real maple syrup, and tomato soup with crackers crumbled up in them, exactly the way Clint liked it. Having Phil take care of him was awesome, and even if it was just eye drops this time, Clint let himself surrender to the happy glow.

Clint’s happy glow persisted through the drive back to Phil’s apartment, a small but comfortable fourth-floor walk up in a converted brownstone. Clint glanced around, taking in the familiar surroundings: narrow galley kitchen, living-dining area just big enough for a table and a big comfy sofa that was draped with yet another hand-made afghan, this one in shades of sun yellow and avocado green. The sofa faced a wall-mounted TV flanked by bookshelves. Phil’s family and military service mementos topped one, and part of his Captain America collection was displayed on the other. Two closed doors led to Phil’s bedroom, and a surprisingly large and modern bathroom. The first time he’d seen it, Clint had wondered if Phil had chosen this apartment for its shower.

They ordered dinner and ate in front of the TV watching some of the terrible reality TV that Phil loved. By the end of the second episode of Storage Wars, however, Phil was yawning and Clint didn’t want to keep him up.

“We could do the eye drops again, now,” he said. “It’s close enough to eight.”

“Right,” said Phil, “Good idea. I’m assuming you don’t have to wake up to do them in the middle of the night?”

Clint chuckled. “No, when my eyes are closed, they’re fine. And, yes, I asked the doc about that. The drops are mostly just a precaution anyway.”

“An important one,” Phil said as he took the bottles that Clint fished out of the pocket of his cargo pants and put them carefully on the coffee table. Rather than get up from where he was sitting next to Clint on the sofa, Phil shifted sideways. But when he uncapped the first bottle he seemed to decide that he needed a better angle, and ended up with one knee on the sofa cushion pressed up next to Clint’s butt, and the other foot on the floor.

Clint realized that he must have reacted somehow to Phil’s proximity, because Phil paused, bottle poised in the air, and asked, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Go ahead.” Clint made himself go still, but he was looking up into Phil’s bright eyes, so warm and caring. Then Phil laid his palm gently on Clint’s forehead to steady it, just as he had the previous times. Clint forced himself not to react to the contact, and also to quash the sudden absurd impulse to put his arms around Phil and snuggle against his chest. Instead he breathed deeply and focused on keeping his eyes open for the drops. It seemed to take Phil forever to squeeze out two drops into each eye, first from one bottle, then from the other. When he was finally finished Phil put the bottles back on the coffee table, but didn’t move away from Clint’s side. Instead he leaned further into Clint’s space. Clint thought for a crazy second that Phil was going to kiss him, but a moment later Phil straightened up, having snagged a tissue from a box beside the sofa and was offering it to Clint to wipe his cheeks with.

“Thanks,” Clint managed to say around the sudden tightness in his throat, and gratefully closed his eyes to hide his longing. He kept them closed, taking a long time to wipe the excess drops off his cheeks, while Phil moved out of Clint’s space and got up off the sofa.

“I’ll get you another blanket,” Phil said, and disappeared into his bedroom. When he returned, carrying two more of the lurid knitted afghans, one brown and orange like the one in his office (though with narrower stripes, not that Clint had memorized the pattern or anything) and the other a surprisingly sedate navy-and-yellow.

“I had a great-aunt,” Phil said as he handed over the blankets. “When I was a kid she sent me five dollars in a card for every birthday, which was a fortune when I was eight, and just barely paid for a burger when I was sixteen. I’d write her and thank her, of course, every year, and tell her a bit about what I was doing. When I went away to college, instead of five bucks, I got one of these every year instead. She ran out of 1970s vintage yarn sometime in the late-eighties, apparently.”

Clint laughed as he pulled both afghans around himself. “Well they’re nice and warm, useful to have around.”

“They’re also indestructible. The yarn is some kind of polyester that has survived countless washing machines. Anyway, you know where everything is. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the fridge or cupboards if you’re hungry.”

“I will. Thanks, Phil,” Clint said, the words feeling inadequate to him.

“Anytime,” Phil said softly with a small but genuine smile. “Sleep well.”

Clint slept very well. So well, in fact that he woke to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee and pancakes cooking on a griddle. He got up off the sofa and stretched. Phil must have heard him, because he turned from where he was working in the kitchen. “Coffee’s made and breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. You’ve got time for a quick shower if you want one.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Clint scrubbed his uninjured hand over his face and headed for the bathroom. A shower would help to wake him up and clear his head, because his brain was ping-ponging back and forth between ‘Phil is cooking me breakfast’ and ‘Don’t be an idiot, Phil is cooking himself breakfast, he’s just making enough for two people.’

The cursory shower (he didn’t want to bother with taking off the bandage on his fingers, so he just tried to keep it out of the spray, with limited success) didn’t help his head any, but it did make him feel more human and presentable. He pulled on the clean shirt he had brought with him, ran his left hand through his damp hair to smooth it, and squared his shoulders. ‘Get a grip, Barton.’

When Clint emerged from the bathroom he found Phil, dressed in SHIELD sweatpants and an old, faded Army Rangers t-shirt, carrying a plate heaped with pancakes to the table. Which was already set with two places, and also held a jug of orange juice, a container of syrup, and a plate of bacon. Clint’s stomach growled loudly.

“Sit down, feed the beast,” Phil said, gesturing to one of the two places at the table. “Help yourself, your coffee’s there. I’m just going to refill mine.”

Clint picked up his coffee and cradled the warm mug for a second before taking a long sip. The coffee was even better than the stuff Phil had in his office, which was itself great compared to the SHIELD cafeteria’s fare. Clint made a small noise of appreciation. Phil, who had just come back with his own cup, raised his eyebrows.

“This coffee is, uh, really good. It tastes different than the kind you have at work?”

“It’s a Sumatran blend. I don’t take it to the office because Jasper would drink it all. It’s my treat for days off at home.” Phil said, then seemed a little embarrassed and looked down. He piled pancakes and bacon on his own plate, and then gesture to Clint’s still empty one.

Clint took another sip of the delicious coffee, then put the cup down and filled his plate. The first bite of pancake was a surprise: Phil had made chocolate-chip pancakes. Clint couldn’t convince himself that Agent Phil Coulson usually had chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast, and his brain started spinning around the information that Phil had specifically cooked Clint’s favorite breakfast. He was halfway through the stack on his plate when he realized that he hadn’t said anything for a while.

“This is really good, Phil. Thanks for, uh, cooking. Just the coffee would have been fine, you know.”

Phil shrugged. “I like to cook when I have the time. I work late so often that I almost never make dinner, so I do breakfast, when I can.” Clint nodded. That made sense, but it still didn’t explain the chocolate-chip pancakes.

They finished eating and Phil got up to clear the table. Clint followed him, but there wasn’t room for two people in the galley kitchen, so instead Clint handed his plate over. While Phil had his back turned to load the dishwasher, Clint blurted out, “What was up with the chocolate-chip pancakes?”

Phil straightened and turned, a calm, steady expression on his face. “They’re your favorite, aren’t they?”

Clint’s mind was in a turmoil, so he fell back on his usual coping strategy, and said in an exaggerated drawl, “Aw, Phil, I didn’t know you cared.”

Phil’s face went from steady to serious. “I do care. I care very much,” he said “More than I should as your handler, and more than I should as your friend.” His eyes locking with Clint’s and holding them.

Clint felt like he had been punched in the gut. There was no mistaking what Phil meant, but Clint had no idea what to say, or do. “I, uh, think it’s time for my eye drops,” he finally said, and the tension between them snapped as Phil looked away.

“Sure,” Phil said, his voice sounding a little rough on the single syllable.

Clint led the way back to the sofa, where the bottles of eye drops still sat on the coffee table. Clint sat down and waited to see what Phil would do.

For his part, Phil was trying to figure out what was going on. On the one hand, Clint hadn’t really reacted to his confession, but on the other, he hadn’t made a joke out of it either. And had Clint, in a roundabout fashion, just invited Phil to touch him? Or was he reading too much into it? Clint obviously needed his eye drops... Phil suppressed a sigh and followed Clint to the sofa. Deciding for once in his life to keep pushing until he got what he wanted, or got a firm rebuke (or a punch in the mouth), Phil picked up the bottles of eye drops, and did exactly what he had done the previous night: he planted his knee on the sofa cushions next to Clint’s hip, and laid his other hand gently on Clint’s forehead.

Clint obligingly tipped his head back, and looked up at Phil with trusting eyes. Phil carefully squeezed both sets of drops in, then put the bottles back on the coffee table. Clint hadn’t said anything, or given him any kind of sign, so with a sinking feeling, Phil shifted his weight to stand up.

Which was when Clint caught his wrist with his un-bandaged hand, stopping Phil from moving away.

“Did you mean it?” Clint asked softly. “What you said in the kitchen.”

“Yes, absolutely. I care about you very much.”

“I, uh,” Clint swallowed. “I care about you too. The way... like you said. More than just friends. Kiss me?” The words tumbled out of Clint’s mouth which twisted into a hopeful little quirk of a smile.

Phil wondered for just a second if maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, but Clint was tugging lightly at his wrist, and Phil let himself be drawn closer, lowering his face to Clint’s upturned one, and kissing him softly on the lips. It was even better than he’d dared dream: slow and gentle, but firm and... real. It became even more real when Clint put his right hand on Phil’s waist where his t-shirt had ridden up, and Phil could feel both his calloused fingertips and the rough scratch of the bandage around Clint’s broken fingers. Despite which, Clint grip was firm, urging Phil in even closer until he relented and threw his other knee over Clint’s legs, setting into his lap. That earned him a deep moan from Clint, and Phil responded in kind, lost in the heady sensations that he’d never really believed he’d actually get to experience.

Phil resurfaced a few minutes later, conscious of a stirring in his groin and a answering firmness in Clint’s. Phil pulled back slowly, with many reassuring little kisses before opening his eyes (when had he closed them?) and looking fondly at a slightly disheveled Clint.

“Unfortunately, we do have to go to work this morning. There’s those blood tests.”

“Yeah. Work. Right.” Clint sucked in a breath. “So, uh, does this mean we’re, uh, dating? Or something?”

“I’d like that very much,” Phil said, very thankful that Clint had asked.

“Cool. So, are you free tonight after work?” Clint’s eyes sparkled and he grinned mischievously as he shifted his hips to rub up into Phil, making the intent behind his question more than clear.

Phil realized that he’d now be spending the entire day at work sitting behind his desk horny as hell in anticipation. “I think that can be arranged,” he said with a smile, and kissed Clint again just because he could.


End file.
